Doubt Thou the Stars
by Ssergit
Summary: Alternate Reality. What if James was late for Voldemort's attack, and didn't die? How would this change everyone's lives, and what bearing will this have on the past and present? JamesRemus, JamesHermioneRemus. Challenge by LJ's Lilbreck. Word Count wrong
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Doubt Thou the Stars  
**Challenge:**  
LiveJournal's **lilbreck** wrote:  


_Summary/time line: Alternate Reality, set sometime during the trio's 6th or 7th year. What's all AR about this?  
James Potter survived the night Voldemort killed Lily and tried to kill Harry. Since James was there to say that Sirius wasn't their secret keeper,  
he didn't go to Azkaban. Also, Sirius doesn't die in the Ministry of Magic.  
Pairings: Hermione/Harry, Hermione/James, Hermione/Remus, Hermione/Sirius or any combinations there-of  
Length: At least a couple of chapters. How much after those couple is up to you.  
Rating: I prefer higher, but whatever you feel like or the muses let you write._

  
**Summary:** 'Alternate Reality like woah.' James has raised his son and continued along with Sirius, Remus, the Weasleys, and the other members of the Order of the Phoenix to oppose the Death Eaters and see to it that the world is safe for their children. On a lighter note, the 'Fearsome Fivesome' (too crackfic? I'll work on that one, then) are determined, amusing, and ready to join the action.  
**Pairing(s):** Remus/James (past), Remus/Hermione/James, Ginny/Neville (just read it, trust me… shifty eyes)  
**Rating/Word Count:** Erhh…I'm really not sure, we'll say PG for now and hope for racier plot bunnies in later chapters. 3,700 words, thereabouts.  
**Notes:**  
Please take care to remember just how 'AR' this story really is—if characters seem to act OOC, it may well be because their childhoods or friendships have changed due to the events being altered from Harry Potter book canon. Each chapter contains a flashback to the events of the past, as well as a section of events from the 'present day.'

**Doubt Thou The Stars**  
Doubt thou the stars are fire,  
Doubt that the sun doth move  
Doubt truth to be a liar;  
But never doubt I love.  
-_Hamlet-_

**Chapter One**

_Prologue_

_He hated to leave them, but they were short on food, and due to the nature of their concealment, the Potter family could receive no visitors for any reason, even if they wished to. The Fidelius Charm's secrecy was so complete that those under its protection could be found by neither friend nor foe—no matter how close they came to being discovered. James was grateful that Albus had responded to the threat on his family's lives with such decisive action and powerful magic, but he still missed his friends. As someone that had spent fully half of his life in the company of a particular group of people, it was incredibly difficult to make that transition._

_It was a curious mixture of fear and love that kept him cooped up in a tiny house near a Muggle town of no consequence, when what he really wanted to do was _fight._Time seemed to simultaneously fly by and drag on at depressing speeds, when one had no connection with the outside world… he'd found _that_ out after the first week. Even visits from Peter had become a rare commodity; his visits were few and unexpected (likely due to the stir-crazy attitude his best friend displayed the last time he'd arrived); James couldn't picture Wormtail reporting their utter lack of news to the Order in the same tone of voice he'd received it in._

_Prongs expected that Pettigrew might have been more spirited in his replies at the time, had he not also been required to spend much of his time in hiding. He vowed to apologize to his friend the next chance he got—after all, they owed him a debt of gratitude for what he was doing for them._

'_Right. The food…' As he tied his shoes the old-fashioned way in preparation to go out, the eldest Potter looked out of his bedroom window at the coming sunset and wished he could take the youngest Potter outside to fly into it, if only for a moment._

_James kissed his wife and son goodbye and headed out the door of their small cottage, dressed as a Muggle for his trip to the grocery at the nearby village of Godric's Hollow. Harry knew how to wave, and did so enthusiastically from the doorway in Lily's arms, tugging at his father's heartstrings and making both parents incredibly proud at the same time. Potter indulged his son by turning to wave back at least three times along the road, missing the last squeal of glee by virtue of being too far away._

The elderly woman who ran the Grocery undoubtedly thought he was a little soft in the head, and he played it up, asking for her assistance in counting out the Muggle money he owed her for the supplies he bought, rather than pretending he knew what he was doing. The last time he'd tried to look confident in such a situation had been on the train into the countryside, and though she'd tried to assure him that he'd been just fine, he could tell by his wife's face that he'd been about as Muggle as a Quidditch player in full uniform. Lily was a lot better at this sort of thing—but James would rather have jumped in front of that very same train than allow her to leave the safety of their hideout for any reason.

_It was a little bulky, having to carry the packages entirely without magic, but he managed, his arms aching and his back feeling a twinge by the time the cottage was in sight. He wasn't superstitious, he didn't take much stock to Divination, and he didn't believe in premonitions—but James Potter knew something was wrong as soon as he reached the path that led to the small house. Perhaps it was the noise—or, rather, the complete lack of it, which was odd for a family with a baby. Perhaps it was the chill wind that blew past him in through the cracked door, or perhaps it was just the knowledge that all lovers hold in their soul when the ones they love are in danger—but James dropped everything he was carrying in the doorway, out of sight and mind as he raced into the house, icy terror replacing the blood in his veins._

_The house was no longer quiet, and the voice he now heard sent waves of dread and anguish through his body. He took the stairs two at a time, not even knowing what he would do when he reached the top, other than throw his useless body before that of his wife and their precious son, and hope for a miracle._

_It was already too late; when he burst through Harry's bedroom door, all he saw was a bright flash of green and a swath of red. He knew he was dead, or soon to be, hearing the awful words and knowing what the glow of a successful spellcast looked like. James felt an incredible pain, as though the very essence of himself was being torn from his body forcibly, against his will. He saw in his mind's eye the image from what he knew had to be his last moments on earth: the falling curtain of his wife's hair._

**_January, 1998_**

"I see you're wearing your Christmas sweater, too, Harry!" Neville Longbottom said, pointing at his own blue knitted sweater that sported an 'N' on the front. Harry Potter grinned at his best friend, looking down at his own 'H' and pulling at the neck a bit. It was rather snug—Molly Weasley didn't seem to like the fact that her youngest children and their friends were growing up, and Harry wondered if she'd unconsciously knitted his sweater a size too small.

"I really wonder where she finds the time," he mused, propping his feet up on the seat beside him and watching the last-minute activity in the train station through the train window.

"I can't believe you two are actually _wearing_ those," Ginny Weasley remarked with mocking shock as she opened the door of their compartment. She squeezed into the tiny seat space next to Harry with the ease borne from years of friendship.

"Where's yours, then?" Harry asked her bluntly, giving up and putting his feet back onto the floor to give her enough space to sit. "You could have asked me to move over," he pointed out.

"_You_ could have left more space," she said, poking a bony elbow into his side with a cheeky grin on her face, adding casually, "I gave my sweater to Arnold." At this, Neville looked up at her quickly, then down at his tightly-knit sweater (which, now that Harry looked at it more closely, seemed to fit _him_ perfectly…), a gesture done without much attempt to hide his meaning—which earned him a pair of narrowed eyes from Ginny.

Harry was glad that she'd decided to leave her pet Pygmy Puff elsewhere for the trip back to Hogwarts, as it seemed to delight in nibbling on his robes. Then again, if—judging by Neville's reaction—it liked nibbling on knitted sweaters as well, he might have to change his mind.

"My, aren't we cozy?" Ron Weasley stepped into the compartment sporting a thick maroon sweater with a large letter 'R' on it, causing the three current occupants to laugh at his appropriately timed entrance. "Do I even want to know?" he asked, looking from face to face for an indication of what had made his appearance so funny.

"I wonder how many skeins mum used on yours—you're almost as tall as Bill, now!" Ginny eyed her brother critically.

"Height doesn't have anything to do with sweaters…" Ron shook his head, looking as though he thought his sister might be daft as he seated himself beside Neville and across from her.

"She means your arms are long," Hermione Granger informed him matter-of-factly from the doorway. "Any room left?"

"Not unless you want to sit on Harry's lap," Ginny offered slyly. "Actually," the redhead amended, "I don't know if I want to see that. I'll sit on the floor."

"That's bound to be against the fire code…" Hermione wavered.

"Sit," Ron ordered, pointing at the now vacant cushion beside Harry. "—unless you'd rather spend the train ride being mooned at by Dennis Creevey, that is."

Hermione sat.

"So, how were your parents?" Harry asked Hermione politely. He'd always found her descriptions of her Muggle lifestyle during the holidays and as a small child fascinating, though he could tell that his friend didn't much enjoy talking about it anymore. She was drifting away from her family, something he figured probably happened to all Muggle-born children. It was yet another thing he wished he could have talked to his own mother about.

As expected, Hermione made a face before answering, pulling him from his internal reflections and back to the cramped compartment.

"Apparently, I have a whole host of relatives that I 'never get to see,'" his friend explained in a pained voice, "and they all decided to show up this year. I even have a five year old cousin named _Alicia_."

Harry could tell that the little girl must have really done something awful to bring about _that_reaction—Hermione was usually careful not to insult any members of her family.

"That bad?" Neville asked, apologizing in a soft voice to Ginny after stepping on her hand by accident.

"She spent two hours explaining to me about how _special_ she was because some toy she got for Christmas can play back recorded messages." Hermione snorted. "I'm usually good about acting 'Muggle' for the extended family, but all I wanted to do was shut her up by levitating the stupid thing out the window or something…'Look what _I_ can do!'" She sighed, even as the rest of them roared with laughter. "I guess it's a good thing we can't perform magic outside of school."

"I never really understood that rule," Harry admitted, ready for the inevitable indignant reaction.

"Well, it's not really fair to allow some students to do it, but deny the others," Neville pointed out reasonably.

"It's not like I don't know what I'm doing," Harry continued, trying not to think about the mess he'd made trying to help his godfather Sirius with his old motorbike. He was just hopeless when it came to Muggle mechanics, or so it seemed. The two of them had been hoping at the time that his talent in flying would translate to anything that had the ability to fly—but he had been completely unable to figure out exactly what had gone wrong on that motorcycle.

Privately, he thought his father's irate scolding on the subject had been completely unwarranted, considering the fact that he and Sirius hadn't even managed to get the contraption to lift more than a foot off the ground.

"You wouldn't understand what it's like, Harry," Hermione told him. "It's second nature to you, to have those kinds of abilities."

"If it makes you feel any better, Hermione—my Gram doesn't let me do magic when I'm home from school," Neville offered as consolation. Harry looked up in surprise.

"Not _any_?" he asked, realizing as he did so that it was a stupid question. Augusta Longbottom was a force to be reckoned with—and to her, rules were rules. He made a mental note not to so much as stir tea with magic on his next visit, just to be safe—even though, by then, he'd have graduated Hogwarts. It was never a good idea to cross Mrs. Longbottom.

"Now I know why you visit myself and the Weasleys so much," he reflected aloud. Neville flushed, and Harry saw Ginny's cheeks take on a slightly pink tinge as well, as she punched their friend's foot in a sort of violent reassurance.

"Well, who wouldn't want to let out their aggression by weeding the garden of those beastly gnomes," she said, a trifle defensively.

"So, Harry," Hermione began to say, caution evident in her body language as she eyed the hallway visible through the window of their compartment. "Any idea when the next meeting will be?"

Harry knew she was referring to the DA, the name having special meaning to all of the defense club's members since the awful events of the last year. They'd been meeting as often as possible, now—events were moving quickly on the outside, and Harry had spent quite a bit of the Christmas holiday trying to glean what information he could from his father. What the Order of the Phoenix was up to, how much they knew about the current attacks in the Muggle world, and more importantly—what they were planning to do about it. James Potter had said how very proud he was of what Harry had accomplished with the DA, telling him privately that he and the rest of the Order considered it as almost a junior OotP, a student companion club to Order's official opposition to Voldemort.

It had been hours later, in bed, that the young man realized his father had deftly parried every attempt at getting inside information.

"This week," he replied firmly, refocusing his thoughts to Hermione's question. "Though, from the looks of the number of students that boarded the train, we've lost a few more members."

"Yeah—it's hard for some parents to trust the school after what happened last year," Ron said, looking down as though he felt guilty even saying something like that, whether or not it was true.

"I believe it's safe," Ginny said with such quiet determination in her voice that Harry could hear both her mother's faith and the girl's own inner strength practically radiating from her words. The adamant assertion coming from someone sitting cross-legged on the floor and playing with a shoelace—Neville had noticed, Harry saw, but his friend had done nothing other than look secretly pleased—struck Harry as a perfect example of his youngest friend's character.

"I for one am _glad_ that the Headmistress decided to keep the school open," Hermione said in a voice that did not invite discussion, looking up from her ever-present copy of _The Daily Prophet_. Ron coughed something that sounded exceedingly like 'Head Girl,' but Hermione ignored him. Nudging Ron, Neville took up the challenge.

"—And this has nothing to do with the fact that it's the first time in the school history the Head Boy and Head Girl are both Muggle-born?" Longbottom asked innocently, his toothy grin meant to disarm her expected reaction.

"I'm proud that the faculty chose to reward the positions based on _merit_, yes," Hermione replied, her jaw squaring slightly as she defended herself and her colleague. Justin Finch-Fletchley's confirmation as Head Boy had been a surprise to many, but the normally quiet, reserved young man had stepped up to the responsibility with a dignity and competence that had earned even some Slytherin students' grudging respect, Muggle-born or not.

"Well, if what happened my First year was an indication, Gryffindor will be the ones with a Head Boy next year," Ginny said cryptically. When they all simply stared at her in confusion, she sighed deeply and added, "The basilisk? Both Hermione and Justin were petrified?"

Harry could tell that Hermione and Ginny had already talked about this, by the fact that the girls were the only ones without open, shocked (and, in Ron's case, slightly baffled) mouths. In a really odd way, though, the two of them had a point—it seemed like, strangely, all of the students affected by the basilisk had in some way gone on to be prominent in one way or another… All of a sudden, a frightfully amusing thought struck him.

"I'd rather Mrs. Norris than Colin Creevey," Harry said, shuddering slightly.

"You're right, though—Penelope Clearwater was Head Girl too, wasn't she?" he mused.

"Too bad Percy mucked it up and she dropped him," Ron said with a mischievous little grin. "—or he could have continued the Gryffindor tradition…" he trailed off, sending Hermione a knowing look.

"Ronald, I can't even _begin_ to understa—" she started to reply with an exasperated look mixed with confusion.

"Harry's parents," Ginny said simply.

"Oh, Merlin—you're right," Hermione shot him an apologetic look, choosing to completely ignore the insinuation that she and Justin might be involved.

"It's all right—loads of people grow up without—" Harry began to say before he realized who was also in the room. His voice trailed off as he suddenly had no idea where to look. Ginny had stopped fiddling with Neville's shoelaces to look up at the young man carefully, Ron looked uncomfortable, and Hermione had a distressed expression on her face. Neville waved it all off, however.

"You're right, Harry," he said in a voice that sounded mostly calm, though a slight bit more high pitched than normal. "We're lucky to have Grams and your dad, then, aren't we?" Harry met his friend's eyes, the two of them sharing the connection they'd felt since they were small children. He felt stupid for even worrying about how Neville would have seen his statement—after all, as much as it hurt to point out (and hurt Neville to see), Alice and Frank Longbottom were still alive.

"Yeah—until he starts assigning essays," Ron said darkly, referring to Professor Potter's propensity for written homework. "Just our luck your dad decides to go all serious on us right at the wrong time."

"I think he does a great job as Transfiguration professor!" Hermione protested, tucking her newspaper carefully in her bag and removing a thick textbook. "The faculty at Hogwarts has always been top-notch—especially in your father's year. Look at the great teachers that came from…" Hermione's voice trailed off into an uneasy silence; one particular example had turned out to be the worst sort of person imaginable.

"Yeah, Remus was a great DADA professor," Harry pointed out swiftly, trying to break the tension—and noting after he'd spoken that Hermione's cheeks turned a little pink at his statement. He'd long suspected that Hermione had a bit of a crush on his father's best friend, but hadn't had much of a chance to observe her with him, as Hermione's parents expected her to spend most of the summer and Christmas holidays with them.

"Professor McGonagall is really good at it, too," Neville said—and Harry could hear the respect tinged with what he suspected was relief to be rid of the previous years' experiences. He glanced over at Ron and the two of them shared a look of pride in the young man their friend had become. Never quite sure of himself, Neville had turned out to be quite talented in Defense Against the Dark Arts, once his fears in his own abilities had been appeased (and Harry thought that the two-week holiday the three boys had spent together with his dad, Sirius, and Remus that previous summer had a lot to do with that).

He and Ron thought the disappearance of Snape hadn't hurt Neville's confidence, either—but that thought always came paired with the awful price they'd all paid for misjudging their former professor. Privately, he'd begun to wonder just how much effect Voldemort's curse on the DADA job may have had on the men and women who held it—but what he'd never admitted to any of his friends in the train car, male or female, was the fact that his father had been offered _that_ job, first.

James had confided in his son that he'd managed to persuade the new Headmistress of a way to thwart the curse, in theory—if she hired professors for a single year, or even a _half_ of a year, the conditions of the spell would be satisfied without any need for violence or betrayal. As it had turned out, however, no one had been brave enough to step forward to test it in practice, so Minerva McGonagall had taken it on herself to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts for the first semester.

"I wonder who we'll end up with, this term," Ginny pondered curiously, catching Harry's expression and guessing correctly as to the subject of his reverie.

"Whoever it is, I hope they're not prone to using memory charms, Inquisitorial Decrees, or housing Dark Lords in the back of their turbans," Ron said, with dark humor.

Harry saw Hermione take a breath as though to answer scornfully, but he cut her off with a quip of his own. "If they have any hat whatsoever, I promise I'll hex it straight off," he promised with a straight face. The ensuing giggles that rang though the compartment carried them into the night and back to their second home.


	2. Chapter 2

Doubt truth to be a liar… -_Hamlet_

**Chapter Two**

_October 32, 1981_

James woke, the action in itself a surprise. The bright white room in which he lay dazzled his eyes, but the slight pain this brought told him he was alive. Yet—he'd recognized the words spoken right before he'd lost consciousness, spoken from the throat of his enemy and accompanied by a blinding green flash of light. If _he_ wasn't dead, then…

"Lily!" he croaked, his voice thick from emotion and lack of moisture. "_Harry_…" The last came out in barely a whisper, as the strength of his horror and the weight of what was likely to have happened stole away his breath and nearly his sanity.

"He's awake!" The voice came from the left, followed shortly thereafter by a thumping sound as Alastor Moody crossed the floor to his bed. His vision blurred by the rush of tears, James reached out blindly, desperate for any sort of contact but dreading it at the same time. To make contact with another human being meant that he really _was_ alive—to _feel_ made Lily's death a certainty. Mad-Eye clasped his hand firmly and James instantly tried to pull away, desperate to deny the truth, unwilling to face this misery in front of anyone. He tried to form words, but both his body and mind were too weak and torn to choose whether to ask about his family or simply repeat 'no, no, _no_…'

"I know, lad," Moody said, an answering anguish in his voice that brought a bitter sort of comfort to James. "I know." The fact that the irascible man hadn't offered any condolences or reassurance was, in itself, a strange sort of comfort. They remained in that stance for a long while, the strength of their grip a kind of communication that was impossible for either to articulate any other way. Finally, the old Auror stirred, as though remembering that he had a purpose other than to share his friend's grief. James could feel the change in the strength of Moody's grip, and forced his eyes open, this time welcoming the pain the sunlit brightness of the hospital room brought to his vision.

"Where is he, James?" Mad-Eye shook their combined hands fiercely, tightening his hold to a crushing degree. It was obvious to James that Moody was furiously angry, but his own mind seemed to block out possible reasons, as though unconsciously deciding he had enough to worry about just now. He shook his head, uncomprehending.

"I don't—"

"_Where is Sirius_?" the man fairly roared, dropping their hand contact and gripping the bed railing with such force that James expected to see the metal buckling in any minute. The stone wall that his mind had been building around a certain piece of knowledge crumbled at the sound of his best friend's name, and two separate kinds of horror struck James at the same time, one more important than the other. He struggled to sit up, ignoring the protests of his muscles, ignoring the weakness in his arms. This was an _imperative_.

"No!" he tried to shout, the word coming out in a sort of broken cry.

"I know how you feel, boy—send ME for him," Moody said fiercely, the glint of fury in his eye mixed with the terrible bloodlust called revenge.

"No—" James repeated, knowing that Mad-Eye didn't understand, and fearing that the coming unconsciousness he felt as a result of his desperate movements would prevent him from relaying this important message. "Not Sirius…"

He began sinking back against the pillows, thick blackness descending against his eyelids. This felt like the hardest thing he ever had to do, maintaining the strength to stay awake and prevent another senseless death—for he recognized what he saw in the older man's eyes: if Moody found Sirius, the Dementors of Azkaban wouldn't be given a chance to administer their terrible kiss.

"I'll find him," Mad-Eye promised.

"PETER," James gasped out, his breath coming in quick pants. He _had_ to tell the other man, had to confess his foolish decision and face the fact that his rash choice had lost him his wife, his son, and most probably, his soul. Alastor Moody reached over and lifted him bodily to gaze intently into his eyes, and James welcomed the crushing pain in his arms, for all that it reminded him that he was alive, and she—_they_ were not.

"Are you telling me you switched your Secret Keeper?" the Auror asked, his eyes searching James' for the truth. The effort of keeping his eyes open took all his remaining strength, and James had just enough breath to whisper a weak 'yes' before he lost consciousness.

oOoOoOoOo

Moody laid the young man back against the pillows gently before turning with uncharacteristic speed to head for the door. His mouth felt dry as he contemplated the action he'd taken earlier that day, as soon as he'd heard of what had happened to the Potters. As an Order member of high standing, he was one of a handful of people who'd known who the young couple had chosen to cast the Fidelius Charm with—and it looked as if even _that_ hadn't been true.

Mad-Eye hoped he could contact all of the Aurors he'd sent looking for Sirius Black before they found him. His thoughts then turned to the young Pettigrew, his contemplations so black and the power of his magic so uncontained that when he drew near to a delicate vase on his way to the pediatric ward, the single rose displayed within it withered to dust and was blown away by the force of his passing.

oOoOoOoOo

Sirius Black liked being angry. He loved the way it made him feel—the rush of adrenaline, the powerful confidence, the raw heated fury that drove his steps and coated the back of his throat with a nasty, bitter flavor. He moved slowly, stalking his prey in the form that was best suited to his wrath; a beast was far better suited to tracking a traitor. He sensed that he was drawing near—the familiar scent that had just _hours_ before been associated in his mind with happiness, camaraderie, and trust was now flooded with a desperation that all animals recognize as self-preservation. That Peter's version was tinged with the full-bodied odor of sheer terror simply made the chase all the more enjoyable.

He felt feral, in a way that he only now understood must be how Remus felt during the full moon—he _needed_ to find his prey, he wouldn't be satisfied until blood was spilt—and the difference, Sirius knew, was that he no longer cared if that blood included his own. Using Peter instead of himself had been _his_ suggestion, and Padfoot whined uncontrollably for a long minute, recalling his pride at the unconventional thinking; the irony of it was like a thorn in his paw that wouldn't leave him no matter what form he chose.

For who would suspect Peter?

He was very close now, and Sirius's jaws broke into an evil sort of grin at the slight difference in Pettigrew's scent—the idiot thought he was _safe_, hiding in a dirty alley surrounded by a Muggle shopping district. For a fleeting second, he contemplated the sheer satisfaction he would get from killing Peter as a dog, but when he rounded the corner nearest to where he knew his former friend was, he saw the reflection of Peter's human form distorted by the dumpster on which he saw the image. Padfoot became Sirius, and, removing his wand, Black turned the corner to face Pettigrew.

Whatever the outcome, Sirius intended to get his revenge.

oOoOoOoOo

Remus stood at one of the windows of the nursery, holding Harry and trying not to cry. Crying wasn't something he did often, but the time was nearing the hour when it had happened, twenty-four hours before. It was really unforgivable of him not to be with James right now—Sirius was still gone, having left in a towering rage to find Peter… He shook his head; the soft touch of his hair hitting his face as he moved was in direct contrast with the chaos that were his thoughts right now.

He and a scant few other Order members had been told in strict confidence from Albus Dumbledore that Sirius Black was to be the Potter's secret keeper, something that had worried Remus, as much as he tried to ignore it. Sirius's behavior had been increasingly worrisome over the previous few months—his erratic and dangerous behavior (his challenge to a pair of suspected Death Eaters to reveal their allegiances in the middle of The Leaky Cauldron had been particularly frightening) had gone from bad to worse. Remus had even begun to suspect that Sirius was risking all of their lives in order to force a confrontation with their enemies… and sometimes, Lupin wasn't even certain who his best friend considered to be his enemy.

All that time he'd spent suspecting Sirius, mistrusting one of his best friends—and Padfoot hadn't even been the one to betray them.

Remus wanted to rest his forehead on the warm windowpane, wanted to feel the sun's rays punish him for such a grave error, but he didn't want to put Harry down, nor did he think the little boy would appreciate the value of heated glass in quite the same way that he did just then. He wanted to go in to see James, but how did you comfort someone when all you wanted to do was cry yourself? He had wanted to go with Sirius, but the hotheaded young man had already gone searching for Peter the instant he found out.

_Peter_… So far, Lupin had managed not to think of his former friend directly, but now the thought of Pettigrew—of _Wormtail_—drew a pained gasp from him that had Harry patting his face reassuringly.

That the youngest Potter would be comforting _him_ at a time like this opened the floodgates. Lupin threw back his head and moaned with the force of it, causing the little boy in his arms to shift nervously. The tears which had seemed just a moment ago as for the most part contained burst forth in a torrent; Remus brought his head down just as Harry lifted his small arms around his neck, and though it seemed like the strangest thing in the world, Remus rested his shaking head on the boy's tiny shoulder and wept.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to do that," came a voice from across the room. It was Albus, his tone sober and gentle.

"Why is it," Lupin managed to say through his tears, "—that only the very young and the very old are truly wise?" Dumbledore chuckled softly, and Remus realized he'd paid the man somewhat of a backhanded compliment. Somehow, his mentor's light laughter seemed exactly the right calming tone, however, without addressing the reason for the tears.

"Have you been in to see James?" Albus asked, and Moony noted with gratitude that there was no hint of censure in his voice.

"I just couldn't—" Remus choked up again, looking down through tear-blurred eyes at Harry, who stared right back at him somberly with his mother's beautiful eyes. "I'm a terrible friend," he said, shaking his head bitterly. "I should be in there."

"Remus," Dumbledore said with a strange note of urgency in his voice that shifted little Harry's attention to the older man immediately. The Headmaster of Hogwarts walked over to the window and looked out before he spoke again. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything," Lupin promised in a pained whisper.

"James doesn't know…" Albus nodded in Harry's direction, and Remus stared at the other man with wide eyes before looking down at the child in his arms. Harry was staring at Dumbledore, his small hands clutching at the neck of Lupin's robes.

"Albus…" he said, completely unsure of himself at that moment.

"You're his best friend, Remus," Dumbledore said to him gently. "Don't you think it would comfort him to learn something miraculous from a friend—particularly today of all days?" The old man reached out and touched Harry's head in a gesture reminiscent of a benediction. "James needs you," he said, meeting Lupin's gaze somberly. "Go and be his calm in all this chaos."

oOoOoOoOo

He didn't know what he thought was going to happen, but whatever it was, this wasn't it. It struck Peter as very odd that what he regretted most in this great moment of fear was that he hadn't dissuaded Sirius from choosing a canine animagus.

Peter had always been a little fatalistic, expecting little from life and cherishing the times when life had surprised him. He hadn't expected that his unveiling as the 'inside man' (his mind flirted with the word 'traitor' and rejected it as an oversimplification) would endear him to his friends—he'd planned to explain it away, should it be discovered… well, he'd never planned to give information in the first place, actually. He'd intended…

'What does it matter NOW what you intended?'

Everything had spiraled wildly out of control, and the greatest irony of all was that the side he'd essentially sold his soul for thought he'd betrayed them. Rumor was that Lord Voldemort was completely incapacitated—some said he was dead—and that the prophesy the Order of the Phoenix had been so worried about had come true.

For one shining moment, staring into Bellatrix's furious eyes as she spoke to him through the fireplace, Peter thought he might just be able to tell everyone that he'd planned the whole thing…

He'd just wanted to belong, to have a chance to prove himself with something better than barely catching up or trailing along behind. Where was the glory in being the third of three friends to become an illegal animagus? He'd thought that perhaps as a Death Eater he could at the very least command fear, if nothing else—but the Dark Lord hadn't wanted his public loyalty, he'd wanted a private spy.

Peter remembered just enough of Muggle Studies to tell himself that there wasn't any glory in being the Argos to Lord Voldemort's Odysseus, either—waiting for praise only to die after a glimpse.

Pettigrew slumped to the dirty ground across from a large metallic bin that smelled positively awful, his racing heart starting to calm a bit even as he stared around at the dirty, disgusting alleyway he'd stopped to rest in. He told himself he would wait a few more minutes to allow his heartbeat to stabilize (he'd learned the hard way that a racing human heart meant a frenzied rat's, near to the point of passing out), and then he would shift into his animagus form and hide out here for a few days. The Dark Lord would resurface somewhere, punish a few Death Eaters, and then Peter could come out of hiding and get his reward.

There had to be a reward, after all, no matter what the Lestrange woman had snapped at him. He couldn't have done it all for nothing.

Groaning from the ache of under-used and unusually tense muscles as he stood up, Peter surveyed the alley, looking for places where he was the most likely to find food and shelter as a rat. The world looked much different when one was a fraction of one's normal height, and it was just good sense to—

"You know what the most ridiculous part of your entire scheme is, Wormtail?"

It was Sirius Black, his tone sounding as it had during any number of the Marauders' adventures—playful, a bit mocking… but the strong undercurrent of fury lent a nasty sort of twist to the familiar voice of his one-time friend. Peter didn't have much time to react, and he thanked Merlin he'd already had his wand out.

Sirius was already brandishing his own wand, though the firm grip the other man held it with was the only external clue that Black was deadly serious. He fairly swaggered into the alley, his body language telegraphing the sort of casual cruelty and sheer contempt that Pettigrew remembered was the very thing this man hated in his estranged family. Now, Peter could see why.

"You didn't answer me, Pettigrew," Sirius said, his eyes glittering with a manic energy that was incredibly intimidating. Without thinking of what he might say, Peter opened his mouth to respond, but stopped as the wand holding him at bay lifted purposefully.

"You actually thought that I wasn't going to find you," Black bit out, his voice hovering somewhere between towering anger and hysteria. Somehow, Peter knew that there was no way to address the man across from him that wouldn't release the danger he could recognize in Sirius's eyes.

"I…" he began, trailing off and pulling himself back tightly against the brick wall of the alley behind him as even this small beginning caused a violent reaction in his former friend.

"YOU. You're STILL thinking of YOURSELF, aren't you, Wormtail?" Sirius hollered in full voice. "They're DEAD, and I actually felt like it was MY BLOODY FAULT because I told them to pick you instead—and you're NOT EVEN SORRY!"

Sirius actually laughed then, a hollow, ragged sound, full of grief, anger, and desperation. It was almost more horrible than the thought of whatever Black had planned for him. The laugh mixed for a short minute into a choked sob, enough for Peter to shoot a fleeting look around and note with sinking dread the peering faces of a few Muggles at the edges of the building that defined the alley, and cast a longing glance at the drainpipe not three meters from where he stood. The Aurors that had undoubtedly been sent for him wouldn't fail to question them as witnesses before Obliviating all memory of what they'd seen—there was simply no way he could expect to get away cleanly if they saw him transform.

The seconds trickled by, each more precious than the last; Peter could hear the sounds of muffled talking from the people gathering at the mouth of the alley. He watched as Sirius tried to master himself, the tip of his wand shaking slightly with the force of his maniacal fury. In that suspended moment of time, the only image that Pettigrew could muster was that of James, the tall, confident boy tossing his unruly hair out of his eyes as he told Peter and the others about how he'd managed to get out of trouble with Filch.

James. Wormtail felt his entire body tremble as his mind's eye superimposed his dead best friend over the living one; the roar of his rushing pulse drowning out everything but the voice in his memory.

"See, that's the thing!" James had laughed gleefully as the Marauders crowded around to hear his latest story. "People will believe anything if you spread it thick enough—all I had to do was drop one of the dungbombs at my own feet and toss the rest to Wilkes, and the stupid Slytherin took all the blame!"

"Tell me WHY, Peter," Sirius growled, advancing on him and dissipating the haze of painful memories, replacing them with the even more agonizing reality. James's words were all that remained, and Peter tasted a bitter flavor at the back of his throat as he looked past Sirius at the ever-growing group of Muggles blocking his only exit. Black took another step, then another—and the last puzzle piece slid into place.

When the livid man had moved forward, he'd revealed a nasty-looking rip in the dumpster behind him. It looked to be very sharp. Suddenly, Peter was filled with a fury of his own. 'This was never supposed to happen! It's all gone WRONG…'

"You tell ME, Sirius!" he cried, the tears of guilt and grief finally making their way to his eyes, a lump of dread and abject fear in his throat. Peter thought he saw a broom overhead, but it was a pigeon. The brooms would arrive soon enough, ridden by Aurors at least as angry as Black was.

"What the bloody--" Sirius began, but Peter was committed now.

"How could you! They TRUSTED you, Sirius," Peter screamed back, banking on the confusion, the disorientation that his counter-attack would generate. He started forward, aiming for the jagged metal and the one chance he had to save himself.

Sirius was truly laughing now; Wormtail thought that the other man must be so consumed by conflicting emotions that this was the only release. He told himself he didn't care, that it would help. 'Just a few more steps…'

Sirius blocked his path, and the dam broke in Peter. Fairly sobbing now, he took a handful of his erstwhile friend's robes and spun their bodies around, rearranging their positions in the process. The reflection of the horrified, stunned Muggles warped and distorted in the metal of the dumpster, and the thought of what he was about to do—what he had to do caused Peter to shove Sirius up against it. Black held his wand at Peter's throat, but Pettigrew didn't care. One way or another, it would soon be over.

_A/N: I'm aware that something in particular is long overdue, and I'm working on it... wink_


End file.
